Angels
by control of chaos
Summary: It's too cold outside for angels to fly, and under the light of the sickle moon, we are every one of us angels.


**"_The A Team_" — lyrics owned by Ed Sheeran**

* * *

Even in his early twenties, the boy had retained his youthful complexion.

_white lips, pale face, breathing in snowflakes_

But what he had been blessed with in physical traits was lacking in his eyes, for those dull, clouded eyes weren't those that fit on little boys.

_burnt lungs, sour taste, light's gone, day's end_

A cheap cigarette trailed from the corner of his mouth as he perched atop the rooftop to watch the children play in the snow lightly decorating the streets. A delicate flake alit in his messy bangs. He blankly watched it melt as smoke trailed from his mouth.

_struggling to pay rent_

The house he had inherited from his uncle was one he never wished to see again, so for the moment he was bunking up in a small flat. He was rarely there. One would wonder why he bothered even paying the ridiculous rent. The young man would argue sentimentality. Before it had been his, his former housekeeper—the red-haired woman who had been sister, friend and maybe mother—had been a tenant while his uncle was preparing her a place to live.

Nothing was left of her here, but it reeked less of death and emptiness than his uncle's house. The only things waiting for him there were memories that bit at his heart and tore tears from his eyes.

_long nights, strange men_

The moon was high now and the children were being called in for dinner. It was a pleasant neighborhood, quiet for the most part, and everyone knew each other. Passing strangers would even call out greetings to each other. This was a stillness and trusting that he had never really experienced.

There was a quiet tap of approaching feet on rusty metal stairs. He turned, the vacancy in his hazy brown eyes now taught with caution. A man emerged in an unadorned suit, briefcase in hand. The young man wasn't familiar with him, but he knew the type. The edge evened out into an uninterested stare.

Work called.

_It's too cold outside…for angels to fly._

_Angels to fly._

A cough ripped itself painfully from his throat, thoughts muddled like murky water in his head, and he struggled to remember how he had become submerged in freezing, icy water. A shiver violently rippled beneath his skin. Weight had settled on his chest. He gasped for breath. It hurt. A lot.

_ripped gloves, raincoat, tried to swim and stay afloat_

He'd managed to lose his heavy jacket, so even on the bank, curled tightly in on himself with his hands tucked in his armpits to heat them up, it was cold. Winters in England were always harsh.

_dry house, wet clothes, loose change, bank notes_

At some point, he found himself on the street outside his flat. It was quiet and still, in the friendly, open sense, just as it had been when he had left, gun in hand, mission files streaming from his open hands as ashes, some still pulsing red and orange flames. In their paths, they had melted snowflakes. Or perhaps the snowflakes had overtaken them, smothering the heat in their chilly embrace.

And it was still cold. The snow hadn't stopped, but it hadn't picked up either. Nighttime was pretty on this street. Posts held up lanterns in Victorian fashion, though the candles had been long replaced with electrical, artificial light. They cast cheerful yellow circles of light across the sidewalks, merging with warmer beams trailing from the windows and doors of other flats and small houses on the street.

_weary-eyed, dry throat_

Another shiver racked his overly-thin form as he stared up at the building. Despite the lights, it was late. He was in a plain tee, nothing fancy or brand-emblazoned, and well-worn jeans that had started to fray around his knees and ankles. Noting this, he realized that his keys and phone had been in his jacket pocket, as usual. The aforementioned jacket was, of course, probably sitting in the bottom of a river or in the back of a nondescript black SUV, the type that tends to dump snitches and spies miles from where their starting point.

A girl past by him in much the same situation—chilled, no one to go to, and too young for her eyes—and he offered her the change in his pockets. She raised an eyebrow and said it wouldn't get him laid. Despite her words, she still palmed the change. He wasn't sure if it was the weather or the money that kept her from turning him down altogether.

He shook his head, but sympathized. Men in suits with briefcases made the same types of offers, to which he would respond with the request that he'd return home within two weeks. You can't always win, but compromises have to be made. That's life.

Not sex, he insisted. He needed a cell phone.

_Call girl, no phone_

His eyebrows furrowed and the frustration must have been evident. She hesitantly uncurled her fingers, holding the coins out. He shook his head. Don't need it. He'd find some other way to get back in his flat. His job had a prerequisite of breaking-and-entering experience, anyway. Couldn't be that hard in suburban London, especially with the flimsy security on his window.

The hand offered out to him wavered, but didn't retract. Cold? When he looked up, the coat wrapped around her stick-like waist and too-thin shoulders was being removed. He shook his head again. Not that cold, he insisted.

She gave him a paper-thin smile, and this time he was the one hesitating. Before he could respond, the cheap white coat had blotted out the moon. He removed it only to find her gone, nothing left but imprints in the snow. The coat smelled of flowery perfume, cigarette smoke and sex. She was gone, but the warmth remained imprinted in the thin fabric.

_But lately her face seems_

_Slowly sinking, wasting_

_Crumbling like pastries_

He was back on the roof, nursing an undiluted scotch and a cigarette. His ribs had been bruised fairly badly, so once he'd broken into his flat, he wrapped them immediately his warm shower. The scotch had followed not long after, as well as the smoke and the rooftop excursion. It was early morning now. The lights in the windows had been extinguished, and those on the streets remained as beacons for late, wayward travelers.

The white coat was draped over his shoulders, the faux fur bristling against his neck as he looked up at the sickle moon. He didn't know if it was the danger still ringing bells and sirens in his eardrums, the brush with death, the odd encounter with the call girl on the street, or some potent combination of the three; whatever it was, it jangled his nerves. It wouldn't let him unwind as he normally did.

_And they scream_

_The worst things in life come free to us_

The young man leaned over the balcony. Something was…off. Not wrong, just sitting on the very furthest edge of his perception. He scanned the street, then he took a swig of scotch and set it down on the balcony. A rush of warm air escaped his blue-tinged, chapped lips as a heavy sigh escaped him.

_It's too cold outside_

_For angels to fly_

_To fly…fly…_

A body—cold, no one to return to, and too young to die—lay still in a snowy embankment, half slouched against an alley wall. Her eyes were wide open, jaw slack. The snowflakes slowed their descent and finally ceased falling altogether. No coat covered her shoulders, because she had already given it up.

_For angels to fly, to fly, to fly…_

The crescent moon had peaked in the morning sky and began its descent. A young man perched himself on the ledge of his building's rooftop expanse. In a short gust of wind, his pale blond hair ruffled itself up further around the crown of his head like a halo, and the white coattails fluttered on either side of him. In that moment, he would have rather liked to fancy himself a guardian angel, watching over the girl until someone called the police, or an ambulance.

But with a gun tucked out of view in a strap on his ankle and her coat warming the wrong body, he could only picture an angel of death.

_Or angels to die._

The crescent moon offered no answers. He awaited the next briefcase.

Because that's life.


End file.
